Station Stop
by MissTempleton
Summary: Two men have died at sheep stations near Hamilton, the Wool Capital of the World - and their deaths may not be as innocent as they first appear. City South are called in to provide a fresh perspective, but their first perspective of Balmoral township isn't quite what was planned. A love story.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The regulations of the Victorian Police Force insisted that a constabulary officer, when on duty, must wear the correct uniform.

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson had informed Senior Constable Hugh Collins, the moment the train pulled out of Spencer Street, that he was damned if he was going to sit watching Collins dissolve into a puddle of sweat for the next fourteen hours, and that he should go and change, and that that was an order. As the father of the twins to whom the Inspector had stood witness at their baptism, Hugh Collins grinned, grabbed his suitcase from the rack and thanked him, and reappeared a few minutes later in open collared shirt. Jack, still dutifully suited as fitted his rank, tried not to resent the literal interpretation of his instruction

Eight interminable hours (apart from the one spent devouring the lunch carefully prepared by Mr Butler for two hungry policemen with nothing better to do than focus on the food, which they did to a degree which would have produced Mr B's second chin, thanks to the depths of its gratified smile) later, the train made its first stop, at Horsham. The compartment emptied, including both Jack and Hugh, who used the forty-five minute stop to find a cup of tea made with Actual Boiling Water and stretch their legs.

They were the only people to re-board the train in their compartment, and stretched out with relief; Hugh finally took the opportunity to explore the facts that would certainly not have been divulged at City South.

"So, sir …?"

Jack raised his eyes from the file that he'd started studying once more, and snapped it shut, acknowledging the opportunity that might not be presented once they'd reached their destination.

"There's a lot we don't know, Collins. Two deaths, within a week of each other; and the local sergeant says there's no reason to suppose either was suspicious. It was only because someone in Russell Street with sharp eyes was checking over the report, and noticed that both men were quite young, and the circumstances didn't seem to add up, that the Chief decided we needed to check what was happening."

He tilted his head and met his constable's enquiring one with a pensive look. "Policing out here is very different to what we do, Collins, and we have to respect that; we could just be doing exactly what our cover says, which is to do a resourcing check for our man in Balmoral."

He handed over the file, and dug a novel out of his bag to while away what was left of the daylight hours.

The first mishap occurred as soon as they arrived in Balmoral. In terms of times at which to have something go wrong, ten thirty (yes, they were late) on a Monday night was probably not the best in this part of the world. If either of them had had the chance to work off some energy during the day, the outcome could have been entirely different.

Which, for at least two of the local families, was going to be a matter to be debated for years hence.

"Sir?"

"What is it now, Collins?"

"Sir, I don't quite know how to say this."

"Try." The Inspector was Testy, no doubt about it.

"My suitcase is missing."

"What?"

"It was on the rack, and it's not there any more."

"Oh, no. When did you last see it?"

"It was definitely there when we went to stretch our legs at Horsham."

"And was it there when we got back on?"

"I … er … I don't know, sir."

Collins could not have been a brighter red if he'd placed his face on Dorothy's stove – which, if given the option, he might seriously have considered as preferable to the experience he was currently enduring.

"Your uniform was in that suitcase, is that right, Collins?"

"Yes, sir."

Jack sighed. "It's partly my fault, I told you to change clothes. I'll give you half the cost of the replacement." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "It's going to make life difficult now, though."

They retrieved the one remaining suitcase they had between them (Jack had already resolved that no amount of fellow-feeling on earth was going to have him sharing any of its contents with Constable Collins, even if he was a Senior Constable) and left the railway station.

Walking to their hotel didn't take long, as in the style of small townships, it had been built handily for the station. A group of children, out playing long after what the only father there present would have described authoritatively as Bedtime, screeched with glee over a football and one of them, going for a wild catch, missed it and careened straight into the Inspector.

Jack, winded, caught the lad and with only a marginal loss of dignity and scrabbling hands, restored him to his feet.

"Time for the final whistle, surely?" Jack asked mildly.

The boy didn't so much as glance back but scurried off with his friends, a cackling mass of juvenile misbehaviour.

Collins had drawn ahead, and pushed open one of the two front doors of the hostelry.

Which proved to be A Mistake.

The hotel had, in the traditional way, a bar and a Ladies' Bar. Presumably no-one ever came to Balmoral who didn't know which was which, because neither was labelled. It was therefore entirely understandable that Hugh Collins picked the wrong door.

Unfortunately, Tiny didn't see it that way.

Mrs Tiny gave only the slightest squeak to interrupt her companion's monologue, but it was enough for her husband to hear in the adjacent room.

Tiny … wasn't. His name was one of those jokes that is always hysterically funny to the people who make it up.

Hugh was pretty handy as a boxer, but Tiny was another proposition altogether. Consideration for J. Timewell (Prop.) had him take out his exception to his wife's finishing of her last drink (definitely served before 10pm, officer) in the street outside the hotel, and Hugh was a bit hazy about the precise sequence of events. Jack was less hazy, but no more able to help.

When Sergeant Mason had hastily shrugged his uniform jacket back on and pulled the melee apart, accusations were being flung far and wide.

Jack was calm, though. "Sergeant, I can explain."

"I'm sure you can, sunshine. Down to the station we go, you can explain there to your heart's content. Tiny, take your missus home and tell her I said I was sorry she was inconvenienced." Tiny clearly placed a heartening confidence in the workings of the law, and did as he was told.

"Sergeant …" Jack was struggling to make much impression on the man, and eventually decided it would be better to wait until they got to the station anyway.

There were two rooms to the station, and one of them had bars on the door. Hugh stumbled to the bench at the side of the entrance and leaned forward, struggling to recover his breathing from the punch he'd taken.

Jack dumped his case against the desk and reached into his pocket.

"Sergeant, I'm sorry that this wasn't the best way to introduce ourselves. I'm Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson of Melbourne City South, and that," he nodded towards the choking Collins, "is my Senior Constable Collins."

He was still delving into his inside pocket, and reached instead into the other one.

"Of course you are, mate," said the sergeant amiably. "And I'm your Senior Aunt Sheila. Because, in case you weren't aware, your Constable ain't in uniform, and you ain't showing me any identification. Those are the sort of things we feel quite strongly about, which you'd know, if you was actually police."

Jack wasn't showing any identification; because Jack was coming to the increasingly disturbing realisation that his identification was Absent Without Leave.

Reassured that they could make all the telephone calls they wanted in the morning – as long as it was only one each, and they'd have to wait until Betty had started her official working hours to connect them – Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and Senior Constable Hugh Collins were invited to spend their first night in Balmoral township sharing a room.

The one with bars, in the police station.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Phryne hadn't got to bed until almost two – the dancing at the Green Mill had been _such_ fun – so when Mr Butler tapped gently on the door just after eight a.m., the whine that instructed him to go away and come back tomorrow was understandable.

"I'm sorry, Miss – it's the Inspector on the telephone. He apologised, and said that if it wasn't urgent he wouldn't have called."

The word "Inspector" got an eye open. The rest of the speech had her sitting up and reaching for her robe.

"Avert your eyes, Mr B," she advised. "This won't be pretty."

Her factotum chuckled and led the way down the stairs; the lady of the house stumbled after him.

"Jack, darling? What's the matter? WHAT?! Again?! However do you do it? Were you this felonious before we met? I'm sorry, darling, I'll stop teasing. What do I have to do to get you out? Hang on."

She covered the mouthpiece to protect the ears of the detainee on the other end of the line and yelled for Mr B.

"Please can you look in the second drawer of the desk, Mr Butler? You're looking for an envelope marked Official Documents. Got it?" She uncovered the mouthpiece again. "Got it. What do you need, Jack? Promotion letter and passport? Okeydoke, we've found them. Oh, Hugh as well? Dot will be cross with you if you've led him astray too. Don't expect me to defend you from Mrs Collins if she's on the warpath. A uniform? Well, if it's the station's spare I'll need to bring Dot anyway, to adjust it. Right, if that's it, you'd better get off the line – I'll need to call the airfield and get the Moth fuelled up. No, I know Dot won't like it, but Hugh needs her – I expect that'll do it. How long? Hmmm ... an hour for my bath," she broke off and giggled. "Teasing again, sorry, I couldn't resist it. An hour to get everything ready and get to the airfield ... half an hour for checks ... A couple of hours in the air ... I expect we can be with you by lunchtime." A fond smile and a rejoinder quiet enough that Mr Butler wouldn't hear. "I know you do, and you really shouldn't announce that sort of thing in the middle of a police station. You can tell me how much when I see you."

She hung up the receiver and immediately picked it up again. Calls to the airfield, the Collins residence and City South police station completed, she raced upstairs for a cat's lick and a promise instead of the threatened bath, the donning of clothes warm enough for a couple of hours of aviation and the throwing of other clothes and necessities into a soft bag in a way that was calculated to make her former maid, now partner, Dot, shudder when she saw it.

Dot had, as Jack predicted, not been at all happy about the idea of getting into the Moth.

"Couldn't I take the train, Miss?"

"Dot, I've told you before, we're partners now, you need to call me Phryne. And no, the next train wouldn't get you there until tomorrow night, and what use will that be to Hugh? I promise I'll fly slowly," she grinned, eliciting a wavering smile from her understandably nervous colleague.

"Miss – Phryne – if we're going, we're going," she said resolutely, "and don't you dare fly slowly, it's the speed that keeps the plane in the sky."

"Very good, Dot," said Phryne admiringly, "and mostly right. We could fly _quite_ slowly, but there isn't much point. We want to get these poor chaps out of jail. What on earth can Jack have done with his warrant card?" she wondered idly, swerving in front of a delivery van to come to a screeching halt in front of City South.

The spare uniform secured with only the minimum of argument (there being enough officers at City South with enough experience of Miss Fisher to know what was and was not worth arguing about) they made good speed – well, to be fair, excessive speed – to the airfield, and were airborne slightly ahead of schedule.

Dot had slightly more than two hours in which to confirm her suspicion that she wouldn't be very fond of flying. However, she coped, and the landing in a field just outside Balmoral township (Phryne was reasonably confident that she'd got the right place, and was pleased she hadn't tried to navigate by identifying any individual sheep stations. Sheep, it seemed, were a bit … same-y) was achieved firmly, but in a manner that allowed all present to walk away from the aircraft which would itself almost certainly be able to take off again in due course. This, Phryne assured Dot, was regarded as success in aviating circles.

Their arrival had, not unnaturally, attracted attention; and the closest audience was the bunch of urchins which had, prior to their arrival, been playing in that very field. The game was clearly continuing as Phryne and Dot disembarked.

"Pow! Pow!" shouted several of the otherwise quite cheerful looking children, miming handguns with their fingers. Phryne decided it wouldn't hurt to make some friends, and played along, putting her hands up.

"I'll come quietly, I promise! Who's in charge here? I want to make a case for the defence."

The tallest of the boys swaggered across. "Yer look like a regular crim to me," he announced grimly.

She couldn't in her heart admit that her past could stand scrutiny, but was prepared to put up a fight. "You don't look so holy yourself. Who are you to ask questions?" she sneered gamely.

"P'lice," he announced proudly, pulling a pretend warrant card out of his pocket and flashing it at her expertly. She feigned concern, but Dot trotted past her and grabbed the young officer of the law by his skinny and grubby forearm.

"Just a minute, young man," she said firmly, in tones she must (Phryne thought) have learned at her mother's knee. "Let me see that card."

Reluctantly, her captive pulled his hand back out of his pocket. Dot took the card from him, glanced at it once and passed it to Phryne – who looked at it, did a double take and grinned broadly.

"What's your name?" she asked the now slightly scared looking boy.

"Not tellin'" he mumbled.

"Okay then, I'm going to call you Tea." He looked mystified. "It's rhyming slang for thief. Tealeaf. I'm happy to be able to inform you that Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson will be delighted to have his property returned, and if you play your cards right, he won't even find out where I found it. As a first step, I want you and your friends to get some lengths of rope and pegs and fasten my 'plane down. She's light, and if the wind gets up, she'll roll over. Don't stand on the wings, and don't tie a rope to anything that moves. I'll be back later to see how you got on."

They strode off without a backward look at the group of children who couldn't quite believe that they'd been given such a responsible task, but after a moment's hesitation, scurried off to fulfil it.

Fisher & Williams, in the meantime, strolled into town and unerringly identified the police station; the presence of a uniformed officer on the bench outside, enjoying a sandwich in the sun, was admittedly a giveaway.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant," said Phryne politely. "I believe you are currently playing host to Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson and Senior Constable Hugh Collins? We're here to relieve you of the responsibility."

So saying, she sashayed past him into the station, and up to the bars of the cell. Producing the warrant card, she presented it to the officers resident therein – particularly the one who was missing it more.

"Hello, Jack."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Neither occupant of the cell was exactly looking his best. Both needed a shave, and some sleep, and a decent meal. However, a great deal was forgiven for the unalloyed joy of having their spouses appear with the means of escape.

Sergeant Mason was obviously mortified, but Jack was more than ever eager to keep him on side, and laid on the praise with a trowel.

"Sergeant, you did exactly the right thing, and if you'll allow me, I want to file a report to Russell Street on the way that you defused what could have become a very tricky situation."

Mason assuaged, the released captives steered their spouses back to the hotel. (This time, the correct door was used). Converting the reservations for two solitary policemen to rooms for two married men was equally straightforward, as J. Timewell (Prop.) ("Call me Josh, everyone does") pointed out that he'd only ever had them booked into double rooms anyway. Promising that Mrs T would be along with extra towels in two ticks, he disappeared into the depths of his establishment.

Jack and Phryne elected to head straight for their room, on the grounds that Mrs Robinson had flown about 150 nautical miles on less than six hours' sleep; Hugh pointed out to Dot that he would at least need a toothbrush and shaving things. She'd done her best to replicate the contents of the suitcase she'd lovingly packed for his trip, but A Man Only Had One Razor. They left their bag behind Josh's desk and ventured back out to the general store.

While Hugh was selecting his emergency needs, Dot perused the sewing supplies – she had a nasty suspicion she'd need a lot more black thread to adjust the uniform; which meant that they were at opposite sides of the store when the incident occurred.

A young woman – barely more than a girl – was at the counter, ordering a variety of dry goods, which were being efficiently packaged up.

A young man came into the shop and made to walk to the counter. He caught sight of the woman. He stopped and glared at her, then spat on the floor (Dot couldn't resist an instinctive tut. It was, after all, right next to the flour sacks), turned on his heel and left.

The young woman promptly burst into tears, and was led by the lady behind the counter into a back room.

The store was then empty, apart from Mr and Mrs Collins, who looked at each other for answers to what had just occurred. None such were forthcoming, but in an act of symbiotic teamwork, Hugh headed for the door and Dot for the back room.

"There, there, Julie," the proprietor was saying, rubbing the girl's back in a motherly fashion. "Them Monteiths is all the same. Think they're the kings of this place and they ain't. That Ben needs a good hiding, if you ... Yes, can I help you?"

She broke off when she caught sight of Dot peering around the doorway.

"Oh! No, I'm sorry – I just wondered if I could be of any assistance, but I see you're ..." her voice trailed away as the woman stood and advanced on her, pressing the girl's shoulder to keep her in her seat.

"No, thank you. Were you wishing to make a purchase?"

They retreated into the shop, whence Hugh had already returned from what had clearly been an abortive attempt at a chase. They hastily bought what they needed and left, watched all the way out of the door by distrustful eyes.

"What on earth do you think that was about?" asked Hugh. "The bloke had driven off in a truck before I'd even got out of the door."

"I don't know, but she's called Julie, and he's Ben something. Mont-something?" Dot hazarded.

"Not Monteith?" suggested Hugh.

"That's it!"

"Then that's interesting, Dottie – one of the two deaths we're investigating is a Monteith."

Dot looked at him sharply, but they had arrived at the hotel and privacy was at an end; they simply retrieved their bag from behind the front desk and went to find their room, to make themselves presentable.

Half an hour later, both couples reappeared in the dining room to request a late lunch. Jack and Phryne didn't appear to have done a great deal of sleeping, but were certainly ... relaxed. Hugh was wearing the only slightly ill-fitting uniform, whose arms and buttons Dot had successfully adjusted.

The conversation over a salad and cold meats was necessarily confined to matters of public record, given Josh's attentive presence.

"So you didn't see your case after Horsham, Hugh?" asked Phryne. "Maybe someone just picked it up by accident. Is it worth telephoning Horsham railway station, just to see if it's been handed in?"

Hugh agreed doubtfully that it might be, and Josh offered to make the call himself. A few minutes later he came back wreathed in smiles.

"They're putting it on the down train this afternoon, Constable – it was returned first thing this morning, and the people who took it were so embarrassed they even offered to pay the freight cost. You'll have your bag back tonight."

Jack was reminded, amid the general rejoicing, of the miraculous recovery of his warrant card.

"It pains me to ask, Miss Fisher, but I would prefer to know if there are any assault charges that might be waiting for you on Sergeant Mason's desk?"

She grinned. "Not this time, Jack – though I've only just got here and there's still plenty of time for me to grasp an opportunity. No, I think you probably had an altercation with a child when you got here."

Intrigued, Jack tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. "Okay, I'll bite – how did you know?"

"I've called the child Tea, short for Tea Leaf, and when we've finished lunch I'm going to go and see how he and his little friends have got on with securing the Moth." She winked. "He tried to arrest me for felonies as yet undisclosed when we landed, and made the mistake of flashing your warrant card."

"Why, the little ..." Jack's jaw dropped at the audacity.

Phryne cut him off hastily. "Jack, you've got the card back, and _his_ card's marked now – he knows I've got my eye on him. Why don't you come and check on the 'plane with me after lunch, in case he shows up?"

Hugh, unusually, butted in. "Actually, sir, I think it would be a good idea if Dot and I came along to look at the plane as well. I … er…" he realised he'd failed to come up with a pretext and looked to his wife in mild panic.

"Hugh was worried, _Phryne_ ," interjected Dot carefully, "about me coming here in the Moth. Would you mind if he got the chance to look it over?"

So many glances were being telegraphed across the table that it was a wonder Josh didn't feel the Morse code signals through his shoe leather. Phryne, whose antennae tended always to be finely tuned, instantly agreed; the bill was signed and the party decamped for a bit of plane-spotting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The four sleuths meandered down the main street of Balmoral, the two women in the middle. No hands were held, no arms linked, but only a fool would have supposed they were anything other than couples.

Dot, being in the centre of the arrangement, described the experience in the general store; and Hugh chipped in at the end, "It was because it was a Monteith, sir – I thought it might be worth mentioning."

Jack agreed. "Almost certainly, though I can't immediately see what the link might be."

He filled Phryne and Dot in on the outline of the case.

"There were two deaths, within a week of each other. First, Mark Campbell. His family has the Ardverikie Station. He was found with a broken neck at the foot of a river bank, by a billabong on the Arverikie grazing. The second was Rory Monteith, found hanged in the Monteiths' shearing shed."

"So," Phryne asked, "both dead on their own land, in country where neighbourly visiting isn't something you undertake lightly. What are the signs that made anyone think it was murder?"

"There weren't any, as such," Jack explained. "Campbell's death was put down to misadventure and Monteith's as suicide. The reason we're here is that, when the reports were reviewed, the deaths of two relatively young men, in such quick succession, in an area where even one such death would be unusual, was thought worthy of a review. We're here to make sure Sergeant Mason knows he has our back-up." He glanced sideways at Phryne and Dot. "Whether he wants it or not."

They had reached the unofficial airfield by then, and all stopped to admire the Moth's security.

In no particular order, Jack snorted, Phryne giggled, Dot bit her lip and Hugh gasped.

"Well," Jack struggled, "it's certainly not going anywhere."

Phryne walked forward and examined the children's handiwork closely; then turned to answer him.

"I'm leaving it as it is. They have wildly overreacted to my instructions, but none of these (she counted silently) fourteen guy-ropes is going to harm her in any way, and collectively they do the job."

She stood silently contemplating her aircraft with a broad smile. There were, after all, few things so satisfying as collective approbation of a Good Cause.

Then turned once more to her husband.

"What now, Jack?"

He looked to his constable.

"Collins, I think that now we've all had the chance to recover from our false start, it's time we got down to some brass tacks with Mason. In the gentlest possible way, we need to work out what he really thinks happened to Campbell and Monteith."

Phryne tucked her arm into Dot's.

"If you two are going to be busy playing police politics, I think Dot and I need to have a nice walk. What do you say, Dorothy? Shall we trundle around the buildings of Balmoral? Not quite up to the standards of its Scottish namesake, I have to say, but on the other hand it's probably a lot easier to get in the door."

Dot admitted to herself (though she'd not for the world have uttered it out loud) that she was mostly relieved to have nothing more challenging in prospect than a bit of a stroll. The last twenty-four hours had been a bit more frightening than she'd like, and she was already missing her twins dreadfully (also something she'd not contemplate mentioning). A walk in the sunshine sounded like Just The Thing.

Poor Dot. She really should have known better, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It didn't take long to explore the township; there was, essentially, only one street. There was a little church, though, to which they were inevitably drawn; a pretty but simple structure, with three windows in the gable end above the door. It was of course not locked, and they wandered into the welcome cool of the building.

"James Henderson, Minister of Balmoral and Harrow for 42 years" read Phryne from a tablet on the wall. "Died 1922. I bet he could have told us everything about this community, Dot." She glanced round and saw her partner examining the Roll of Honour.

"Thirty-six names, Miss – such a lot for such a small place."

Phryne had joined her to examine the board when the door of the church opened again, to admit a young woman whom Dot recognised as the one she'd seen in the general store. She was carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies, and stopped when she saw the two other occupants of the church; but then elected to ignore them and went to start dusting the pews.

Phryne and Dot exchanged glances, and carried on wandering down the side of the building. Eventually, Dot fetched up at the same pew that the young woman was cleaning.

"Hello," she said in a voice just quiet enough to acknowledge the sanctity of the place. "It's Julie, isn't it? I'm Dorothy. Dorothy – Collins." Dot was proud of the Fisher & Williams name, but felt it was probably easier to stick to her married name in such a small community.

Julie looked up at her with an expression as wooden as the pew she was dusting. "Julie Campbell."

Dot tried again. "I hope you're feeling better."

This, at least, secured a bald "Yes." And with a sigh, "Thank you. I'm sorry. It's not your fault."

"He seemed – angry. The young man in the store?"

"He is." She looked Dot in the face. "He thinks my family killed his brother."

Dorothy looked suitably shocked. "I'm so sorry! That's awful!" Then, hesitantly, "How did he die?"

"He hanged himself in the family shearing shed."

The sentence was delivered with such venom that Dot didn't have to pretend to be shocked.

"But … I don't understand," she stammered. "If he hanged himself, then why are your family to blame?"

"Because my family thinks he killed my brother Mark; so they made his life hell."

Phryne, meantime, had crept close enough to hear the exchange; one word in it interested her greatly.

"They?" she asked.

The girl looked round at her, confused.

"You say 'they' made his life hell. I'm sorry – my name's Phryne," she belatedly introduced herself. "Didn't you participate in the making of this man's life into a hell?"

The girl stared at her, eyes filling with tears once again. Then she laughed mirthlessly.

"Oh yes, Phryne, I made his life hell too, but differently. Both our lives were hell already. We loved each other. And because of that, he's dead."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Sergeant Mason was only too happy to down tools to talk to his former inmates when the Inspector and Constable arrived at the police station. As they approached the door, they heard the sound of achingly slow typing interspersed with muffled curses, and then the rattle of a sheet being snatched out of the machine; as Jack entered the room a crumpled ball of paper narrowly missed his nose.

"Sorry, sir!" exclaimed Mason hastily, as Jack grinned and retrieved the missile and handed it back. "I reckon I'm lucky there isn't much happens here – it takes me a week to type up a report, and this machine drives me mad. Half the keys stick, which makes it worse."

"Well, that is the kind of thing we're here for, Mason," replied Jack easily. "I've been told to make sure that you have the resources you need – within reason. I'd be surprised if we can't at least get you a better typewriter – at any rate, as long as you promise that last night's cellmates don't have to be mentioned!"

The sergeant grinned.

"Least said, soonest mended, sir, if I might be so bold."

Jack saw his opportunity.

"There must be a fair bit of that to your job, I'd have thought? It can't be easy being the sole law enforcer in a close community."

"It has its moments," Mason agreed, but he was already becoming watchful. Jack decided that more harm than good would be done if he lost the new _entente cordiale_ and carefully introduced the true purpose of their visit.

"I saw you had a couple of deaths to handle recently too. Must be hard when everyone knows everyone – no-one's untouched by that kind of event. Two in quick succession must have been tricky."

"And so you just happen to come along to see if I need a new typewriter. Very thoughtful of Russell Street, Inspector."

Jack shrugged and held up his hands in supplication. He'd decided that, whatever might be the true story of the recent deaths, he wasn't going to be investigating a cover-up by the local force.

Mason opened a cupboard door behind which was a tiny sink; then filled a billy-can and set it to boil. Police politics was clearly going to require a brew.

"What do you know of Scottish history, Inspector?"

As unexpected questions went, that one took the trophy. Jack glanced at Hugh Collins, who was equally nonplussed.

"Er … not much, I confess. It wasn't part of the required study for a Richmond lad when I was growing up."

"It wasn't required in Fitzroy either," remarked Mason dryly, "but believe me, my studies have come on leaps and bounds in my last fourteen years on this particular beat."

The water boiled and he poured it onto the leaves in the pot before carefully setting it aside to mask.

"Let's take the Campbells, Inspector. Not the easiest people to get on with if you were a Highlander in the seventeenth century. Ever heard of the Massacre of Glencoe?" Both policemen shook their heads.

"I'll not go into the details because it'll be a bit hard on the folk living in this town if you start to judge them by the actions of their forebears of more than two hundred years ago, but you need to know that the name has associations and Scots have long memories."

He levelled a glance at them both.

"A lot of people in this town are of Scottish descent. It will help to remember that. In particular, the Monteiths and the Campbells from which our residents are descended came originally from the same community in Fife."

He turned to pour out the tea, and handed them both a cup.

"As I understand it, they didn't get on then, either."

Hugh Collins spoke up for the first time.

"Sir, I was in the general store today, and someone called Julie had a kind of altercation with Ben Monteith?"

It was, Jack thought, significant that the Sergeant didn't bother to enquire about the nature of the altercation. He just nodded resignedly.

"That'll be right, Constable. Julie Campbell. Poor kid. They thought they were hiding it, but anyone with a pair of eyes could see she and Rory Monteith were sweet on each other."

He straightened, and placed his cup carefully on its saucer.

"Inspector, I need to be careful what I say, and I'm going to hope that you'll pick the things you need to hear." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "I think that the conclusion I drew from those two boys' deaths was the right one. Even if it isn't, though, I'm more concerned to make sure that there aren't any more deaths, for whatever reason."

He planted a hand on the counter and propped himself on it, apparently weary.

"I want to be spending my time helping with the muster, Inspector, not jailing my residents on suspicion of murder. So – do what you need to, but if you really want to help? Help me get out on the muster."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Dinner conversation was once again constrained, and Hugh Collins at least was clearly wilting with sleepless exhaustion by the time he and Dot excused themselves to go to the station to await the train that would bring his suitcase.

Jack and Phryne didn't linger in the dining room – Josh obviously wanted to clear up and set the room for breakfast, and they wanted to talk privately.

Their room was decorated practically but prettily, and Phryne spent a few minutes admiring their small patch of balcony with its Victorian lace ironwork.

"It's a nice town, Jack," she commented as she returned to the room, shrugged off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. He decided that actions would speak louder than words, and the next hour or so was spent finding more applications for the somewhat misused descriptor, "nice".

The dictionary and thesaurus having been, at least for the present, exhausted, she laid her head on his shoulder and listened as he described the Sergeant's testimony that afternoon.

"You can't _not_ investigate a murder if you think there is one, Jack" she objected. "Or even, more than one."

"Of course not," he agreed sleepily. 'Nice' could rather take it out of a man. "But Mason is coming across as a good copper; and I certainly don't get the impression he's trying to hide anything. That being the case, are we better going back over old ground, or trying to cover new possibilities?"

The lack of sleep was catching up with them both.

"I … need to speak to some Monteiths tomorrow," muttered Jack.

"I … need to organise a picnic with a view" muttered Phryne. "S'all about perspective."

He screwed up his eyes as he tried to parse what she had just said, and failed miserably. Having a face full of glossy black hair did not, however, prove any barrier to oblivion, and being punched in the middle of the night for snoring only made him roll over without waking.

If nothing else, the Balmoral police cell could set a man up for a good night's sleep – once vacated in favour of a different room enjoying those little niceties like curtains and a mattress. The missus was often helpful, too, as long as she wasn't punching anyone.

Overall, the night passed peacefully, and the contrast between Wednesday's breakfast party and Tuesday's lunch party was marked. Presence of properly-fitting clothing particularly gladdened Mrs Collins' heart; shaved faces for the menfolk were preferred by all those present; and eight straight hours' uninterrupted rest were, it had to be said, an unusual boon for Meggie and Gid's parents.

Phryne was all business, and not in the least bit concerned about publicity.

"Dot, it's a lovely day and I think we should go and have a picnic. Josh?" This last was a yell. The Inspector was closest and winced slightly, but only because Mrs Robinson's singing was beautifully reflected in her voice production. He took a moment to rejoice that she'd never considered opera as a career.

"Mrs Robinson?" Josh popped up obligingly.

"Can I have a picnic lunch, do you think? Mrs Collins and I met Miss Campbell yesterday, and I'm hoping she might show us some of the Ardverikie station. I confess I didn't actually ask her, so I'll need to try to get in touch at some point."

"I'm sure we can manage something," he agreed. "They're on the telephone at Ardverikie – do you want me to try and raise someone?"

"Excellent plan, Josh, thank you. Just yell if you get through." Miss Fisher could gush at prizewinning level, reflected the Inspector wryly.

As Josh went off to do battle with Betty on the exchange, Jack took the opportunity to compare notes.

"Collins, I want to get Mason to take us out to the Monteith station this morning. If there's a feud going on, we're going to have to hear both sides of the story. And what exactly did you mean by perspective, Miss Fisher?"

"Much the same as you, Inspector," she commented. "Now that we know what we're dealing with, it would help to know why. I rather think that taking young Julie out to a quiet spot on the family station will help us find out what was going on when Rory Monteith died."

Josh returned shortly with the news that Miss Campbell would be happy to show them around a little, and recommended they borrow Josh's buggy.

"Can you drive a horse, Mrs Robinson?" he asked diffidently – not to say, nervously.

"To an inch, Josh," she said proudly. "It's not a skill I've needed in Australia but on the family estate in England it was the best way of getting around."

It would be exaggerating to say that any of those present apart from the speaker had the same confidence, but Jack at least reflected that the kind of accidents Phryne could have with a horse and buggy should be less dramatic than those involving either the Hispano-Suiza or the Moth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Julie declined the opportunity to ride in the buggy with Phryne and Dot, choosing instead to saddle up a handsome grey called Ainster. For once, Dot didn't envy her one bit; she liked animals, but found horses a bit unnerving, and could honestly say, hand on heart, that driving with Miss Fisher in this particular form of transport was delightful.

Julie led the way along a winding trail that eventually brought them out onto a gentle ridge, from which there was a pretty view of the surrounding countryside. They spread a blanket, unpacked Mrs Timewell's picnic and started by drinking thirstily of some excellent lemonade; and Phryne, after the first glass had been consumed, set it down and cleared her throat.

"Julie, I have a confession to make."

The girl looked at her with a frown.

"I – we – actually knew a little about you already when we met you at the church. You may already have found out, but the reason we're here is because you're looking at Mrs Senior Constable Hugh Collins," she gestured to Dot, "and I'm Mrs Detective Inspector Jack Robinson."

Julie was only mildly interested – which for Phryne spoke volumes. If Julie had anything to feel guilty about, she was hiding it very well indeed.

"Yes? The ones that Don Mason locked up the other night?" Her mouth twisted up with a hint of humour. "I hope Tiny didn't do any lasting damage to your husband, Mrs Collins."

Dot smiled and hastily assured her that Constable Collins had entirely recovered from his unexpected boxing bout.

"So, they'll be here about the deaths, then?" asked Julie flatly. "But what about you?"

"Well, first we had to release them from Sergeant Mason's clutches," Phryne grinned; "and I'm here till at least Friday anyway, because that's when my fuel arrives for the return journey to Melbourne."

"In addition to that, though, Dot and I are detectives in our own right – in a private capacity, there's no way you'd get me into one of those awful uniforms – and we decided to stick our noses in to Balmoral's business."

The gaze she received from Julie Campbell was disconcertingly direct.

"Specifically, my business, Mrs Robinson?"

Deciding that honesty was definitely going to be the best policy, Phryne braved it out.

"Yes, your business. And we call ourselves by our maiden names when we're working – so we're Fisher & Williams. Phryne Fisher."

She stuck a hand out and it was absently taken and shaken, then dropped as Julie sat up and hugged her knees to her chest tightly.

"God, I envy you. Both of you. The freedom to do and be just what you want. To do business in your own name. To marry the man you love."

To Phryne's mild surprise, Dot spoke up.

"Miss Campbell, when Phryne found me I had no choices at all. I was under suspicion for murder and had been turned off without a reference. I trusted Miss Fisher, and I have a career, a husband and two beautiful children that I've never been away from for so long as this."

With Julie already a bit delicate, and Dot coming over all emotional, Phryne was a little concerned that the whole experience was going to turn into a weep-fest; but Dorothy took a deep breath and ended her little speech.

"What I'm trying to say is that trusting Miss Fisher proved to be the right thing to do."

It wasn't at all clear that the message was getting through; Julie's face was buried in her arms. After a moment, though, she turned her head on its side to look at them both,

"I said that my family thought Rory killed my brother Mark. I know that he definitely didn't, because at the time Mark took that fall, Rory was with me."

"Why didn't you say so?" asked Phryne quietly, though she knew the answer.

"Because if I had, it would have been just one more crime to chalk up in the family feud – and believe me, Miss Fisher, what Rory and I had was infinitely worse than a little matter of murder, as far as our families were concerned."

She rested her chin on her arms again, and gazed unseeingly at the vista before them.

Then her gaze sharpened.

"Hang on, what's that?"

Phryne and Dot looked at her, then followed her gaze.

"Smoke?" said Dot doubtfully. "Is someone having a fire?"

"They'd better not be," said Julie grimly, getting to her feet. "That's scrubland, where a fire can take hold easily, and it's right next to the grazing on the Monteiths' station. The grass is like tinder just now. Bloody hell," Dot actually jumped to hear such words from a lady's lips. "We have to tell them. They won't be able to see it from the house, it's behind the ridge."

She was already sprinting for her horse. Phryne leaped to her feet.

"Won't it take forever to get to the Monteiths' from here? Can't we telephone from your home?"

Julie swung into the saddle.

"They're not on the telephone, and people only man the radio twice a day round here. You'll have to take the track back to the house – go as quickly as you can, and tell them that the fire's at the scrubland by the track to the Monteith station."

She turned Ainster, who was well attuned to his rider's tension and raring to go.

"I can cut along the ridge and down to their station that way. It's less than ten miles, I won't be much more than half an hour. It's the quickest way."

The objections and injunctions to go safely died on Phryne and Dot's lips – horse and rider were already a dust cloud.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The Inspector and Constable Collins were making heavy weather of their interview at the Monteith station, and Mason was being of frustratingly little help.

Jack sat back and sighed.

"Do you want to read that back to me, Collins?"

The Constable obliged; the litany of grievances against the Campbells was as lengthy as it was petty, and Sergeant Mason's claim that the Scots had long memories was being proved tenfold – the crimes had apparently started long before the two families emigrated to Australia. Missing livestock, mysteriously damaged property and straightforward slander were only some of the charges brought. Jack's head was starting to ache, and what he'd hoped would be a straightforward matter of banging heads together until they stopped shouting at each other was not looking like a probable solution.

Eventually, he decided to give up; he was already wishing Miss Fisher had been around. She was so much better at playing these kind of politics. Come to think of it, hadn't she once described to him the resolution of just such a feud between Mr Lin's family and their rivals? She had. One more reason to consult Miss Fisher.

Thanking them, he stood and signalled his fellow policemen to head for the door. As they reached it, though, there was the sound of the thundering of hooves, and horse and rider appeared, galloping towards them at full tilt.

"Hang on – that's Miss Campbell," exclaimed Hugh Collins.

Ben Monteith heard his shout, and barrelled out of the door.

"What's that bitch doing on our land?" he growled, taking up a stance with hands on hips in front of his doorstep.

Jack stepped forward and grabbed the horse's halter as the pair arrived; Julie slid off Ainster's back.

"Fire in the scrubland by the track just after the turn to your station, Ben," she gasped; and promptly fainted. Collins was the nearest person with free hands, and caught her up; without looking to anyone for permission, he carried her straight into the house.

Ben had vanished that way too as soon as he heard her words – a glance at the horizon was all it took to confirm the story. Within minutes, every able bodied man within earshot was piling into the available transport, carrying shovels and rakes; and they disappeared at breakneck pace down the track.

Mrs Monteith, meanwhile, was supervising the laying of Julie on the couch in her sitting room. The girl was still unconscious, and Hugh was banished from the room to allow the Monteiths' matriarch to loosen the patient's clothing.

"Fetch her a glass of water and be quick about it. And knock when you come back."

He did, and was, and did, and was relieved to see Miss Campbell's eyes open, a blanket thrown over her despite the warmth of the day.

"Is she okay, Mrs Monteith?" asked Hugh nervously. "That must have been a heck of a ride."

"I'm sure it was, Constable – but I don't think that's why you fainted, is it Julie?" asked the matriarch quietly.

The younger woman folded her lips mutinously.

"Julie Campbell, don't you dare think for a moment I didn't know what was going on," instructed Mrs Monteith. "How far along?"

There was a silence, while Julie glared at her feet, at Hugh Collins and finally at the woman asking the awkward questions.

"Nearly three months, I reckon," she said sulkily.

"Then you need to take more care of yourself, my girl," announced Mrs Monteith firmly, tucking the blanket in a little more securely. "That's my first grandchild you've got in there."

Hugh Collins was no longer an innocent young man. He was a husband, and a father, and he was gaining a certain amount of knowledge of the Way Things Worked. At that moment, he decided that Things would Work best for him if he went outside and had a little chat with the Inspector, who was probably still dutifully walking a sweating horse in a deserted yard.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Mrs Timewell was instructed to pull out all the stops for dinner that evening; while relations between Ardverikie and Monteith stations were still at the wafer-thin glass stage of delicacy, there was certainly greater chance of reconciliation after that day's work than at any time in the last forty years.

"All thanks to Julie, I must admit," said Phryne.

"Oh, I don't know, Mrs Robinson," responded their honoured guest Sergeant Mason, smacking his lips as he supped his beer. "Julie was in hiding. I think if you and Mrs Collins hadn't got her talking, she'd have stayed in that hiding place; and the fire might not have been spotted until too late; and I really hate to think what she'd have done about," he harrumphed awkwardly, "the Other Thing."

He raised his eyebrows at the Inspector.

"Do you agree with me now, sir, about the cause of the other two deaths?"

Jack pursed his lips. "We know that Rory Monteith had nothing to do with Campbell's death, so yes, that sews that one up. I don't understand why you're so sure about Rory's suicide, though."

Mason sighed. "There are things you can't put in a police report, Inspector. In all honesty, I'd say Julie was worth ten of Rory Monteith. A nice lad, but not one I'd look to when life got tough. It was part of their problem – anyone else would have just dragged the girl away from the family that was stopping them both living the life they wanted. He could only see the barriers, and – sad to say – I think he just gave up. It was easier to believe that he'd taken his own life than that of Mark Campbell."

Jack inclined his head. This was the rural police work – Mason knew his people. On which point, he was put in mind of the newest prospective member of the populace.

"We know how Mrs Monteith feels about the child," remarked Jack, "but what about the rest of the family? And the Campbells, come to that?"

Mason grinned. "I'd put my money on Ada Monteith any day of the week, Inspector. She isn't one to talk, much, but when she does, they all listen. And Julie's the apple of her father's eye, especially with Mark gone. No," he signalled grandly to Josh for another beer, "I reckon I've got a better chance of riding the muster this year than I have since I came to Balmoral."

"So I suppose we can return to Melbourne," remarked Jack. "If nothing else, I have to order a new typewriter for Balmoral Police Station."

"About that, sir," ventured Hugh hesitantly. "There's a train at seven in the morning. We were wondering – Dottie and me – if it would be okay for us to go by train, and then we'd be back tomorrow night to see the twins again. That is … if you didn't mind waiting the extra day and flying back with Miss Fisher?"

There was a silence. Phryne suppressed a grin, and looked carefully at the rare and hitherto flightless creature that was Inspector Jack Robinson. She could almost see the inner struggle taking place, but didn't doubt for a moment that the young parents would get the answer they wanted.

"Very well, Collins."

 _Gosh, how formal. Are you really so scared of flying, my Jack?_

In a rare, tactful moment, Phryne decided to leave the question unasked.

The party broke up shortly afterwards, given the Collins' early start in prospect; Phryne and Jack decided they didn't need to see off their respective partners the following day, and spent most of it lazing around the town. They did go back to check on the Moth one more time, and release it from some of its bonds ahead of the next day's departure; and Jack reacquainted himself with a young man nicknamed Tealeaf, who let the Inspector share his football for a bit.

After all, he reasoned, the Inspector had shared his warrant card, so it was only fair, really.

Jack didn't seem to sleep as well on Thursday night as he had the previous ones, and didn't have much of an appetite at breakfast either.

Phryne again exercised her new-found skill in diplomacy, and conversed artlessly on the weather, remarking what a fine, clear day it was, and how much she was looking forward to having another of Mr Butler's cocktails.

The fuel arrived on schedule, and by mid-morning, they had bid a fond farewell to the Timewells, and borrowed Sergeant Mason to assist with their departure.

Everyone had stopped pretending that Jack was happy about flying. His pallor was almost grey, and Phryne had to help him fasten his harness. She then took his face in her hands, gave him a firm kiss, and told him they would be landing in Melbourne before he knew it and she promised she'd make it up to him the instant they were home. The Sergeant found something fascinating to look at on the horizon until she shouted at him to pull the propeller sharply down when she said 'Contact' and to then keep his hands well out of the way.

The little plane bounced along the rough ground and then was gently and smoothly airborne. Phryne gave a cheery wave at Sergeant Mason, who returned the salutation.

Jack sat quite still.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Phryne set the Moth down a lot more gently in Melbourne than she had in Balmoral, thanks in large part to the presence of a helpful wind sock, and taxied to a halt near the hangar. Tearing off her constricting helmet and rubbing her gloved hands to restore circulation (it was always cold up there) she unstrapped the harness and with muscles that screamed their relief at being stretched, eased out of her seat and leaped down lightly on to the ground.

Jack sat quite still, looking straight ahead. Then up into the sky. Then straight ahead again.

"Jack darling? Are you all right?" she asked.

He started, and looked down at her. Then he, too, removed his helmet and harness and climbed down.

He then took her by both shoulders, and pushed her bodily up against the machine, giving her the kind of kiss that was usually reserved for the privacy of their bedroom. Nothing loth, she responded with alacrity, and things were on the verge of getting out of hand when he appeared to recall his senses and broke away. He was still holding her by the shoulders, though, and the intensity in his eyes was unmistakable.

"Phryne, I know I've preached at you poetically from Nietzsche on flying and walking, running, dancing and so forth. I understand all that – that's why I explained to you so painstakingly the things that I'm sure you've known for years. Now I'm begging you – please, Phryne – _please_ – teach me to fly?"

She hesitated, and gave him a look that could have penetrated to his soul, and agreed.

When – a little while later (and anyone who tries to count the years is being rude and won't be invited to the party) – her granddaughter asked Phryne a typically direct question over a _digestif_ , her eyes warmed.

"That was the moment I admitted to myself that I was in love with your dear, careful, cautious grandfather. Because I suddenly realised that he could be as reckless as me, and that our collective recklessness might result in … well, in something like you, my darling girl. And that you yourself could be a unique glory. You'll laugh at me, Psyche – I was scared of you. Not you yourself, of course, but the idea of you – your mother, and then you. Your grandfather Jack was the only person who was able show me that the risk I was most afraid of was the one most marvellously worth taking."

She leaned back in her chair, and nosed the remains of her whisky with a secret smile, as the gentleman in question appeared in the doorway. He might not stand as straight as he used to, but his evening dress still fit him perfectly.

"I thought we might retire for the night, Miss Fisher?" he asked hopefully.

She stood, still without need of the assistance of arm or stick despite her years; her habit of swimming in the sea had some advantages. He looked at Mrs Robinson in her azure gown and bit back his perennial objection to her turban.

 _You're not a Grand Dame of the Regency, Phryne._

 _No, Jack, but even the great Mr Brummell himself would admit my 'ton' is unexceptionable._

"I thought we might, too. Come after me, Jack Robinson?"

He promised he would, and watched her take the stairs – at her own pace – and counted himself the luckiest Chief Commissioner in Christendom.


End file.
